Fairytales
by amurderofcrows
Summary: Patrick Jane remembers a story his mother told him as a child. Angst, vaguely implied Jane/Lisbon.


Disclaimer: I do not own either The Mentalist or the short story "The Lady, or the Tiger?" by Frank Stockton, though I have taken significant liberties with both. Actually, the way I wrote the story here is much closer to what I remember reading as a child than the original is…

A/N: This was scratching at the inside of my head and wouldn't give up until I let it out. I haven't written fanfiction of any kind for a while, so be kind and review if the spirit moves you.

Lillian Jane was many things – a struggling actress, a fashion junkie, what some would call a "loose woman" – but she had never been a good mother. At an age when most children were forced to eat their vegetables and go to bed early, her son Patrick was left to his own devices. He could eat ice cream for breakfast and stay up until midnight if he wanted, though he didn't really see the point. He slept when he was tired, ate when he was hungry, and tried his best to keep himself entertained. Mostly, he wished his mother was around more often.

This was not to say that Patrick resented his mother; far from it. In his young eyes, she was a bright goddess of drama and chaos. She was the embodiment of the secret backstage world where stagehands grunted and sweated to push scenery into place while performers bustled about half-naked, calling out reminders and jokes as they struggled into their costumes. Blaming Lillian for being irresponsible would have been as pointless as blaming the sun for being bright or the ocean for being wet. He simply cherished her when she was there and missed her when she was not. Anything else would have been wasted effort.

For all her failings, though, there was one area of parenthood where Lillian excelled; she told marvelous stories. There is nothing an actress loves more than a captive audience, and she could not have found a more adoring listener than her son. On the nights when money was running low and there wasn't any electricity, they would light candles and huddle together and Lillian would begin to talk. She told him endless tales of knights in shining armor, talking animals, and beautiful princesses. He probably knew more fairytales than any other boy his age: the old gruesome kinds, the saccharine modern versions, stories from India and Hungary and China. She loved them all, and her voice made them come alive. He would sit in the dark and close his eyes and watch the flames from a fire-breathing dragon glisten on his hoard of gold.

There was one story that Patrick's mother told him over and over again, though it was a little different every time. Much later in life he discovered that it was a modified version of the short story "The Lady, or the Tiger?," but at the time he thought of it only as His Mother's Story. It started, as many fairytales do, with a beautiful princess. She fell in love with a man who was not a prince, or even a knight, but he was handsome and clever and brave. And this man loved her with all his heart. But the king saw only that the man was not a prince or a knight, and he thought that this man was not worthy of his daughter. So when the man came to the king and asked to marry the princess, the king gave him a riddle and showed him two doors.

"Behind one door is the princess," he said, "and behind the other is a hungry tiger. If you pick the door with the princess, I will allow you to marry her. But if you choose wrongly, you will surely die. Read this riddle and choose wisely, because your fate depends on your answer."

The best part of the story, of course, was the riddle. His mother came up with a different one every time, and would not tell him the end of the story until he found the right answer. But in the end the man and his lover always lived happily ever after, because the little boy always solved the puzzle. And the little boy was always right.

* * *

Many years later, after his own happily ever after had ended, Patrick Jane thought back to his mother's story and smiled. He faced his own choice now, and his own riddle. There were two doors, and he knew exactly what awaited him behind each one. Because the little boy had grown up to be a man who was clever, and handsome, and always right. But now he was troubled by a problem he had never confronted as a boy: which door should he open?

Before the blood and the pain and the hate, he had chosen the princess every time. He remembered smiling up at his mother as she laughed and scooped him into her arms and told him what a smart boy he was. And he wondered if that boy could help him find the answer to the one riddle the man could not solve: the lady, or the tiger?

Love…or death?


End file.
